"That's a lie, Clint. You know who killed him--an' why he did it. Ford couldn't let the girls alone. I warned him as a friend, but he was hell-bent on havin' his own way."
The voice of the cattleman trembled. "Some day--I'm goin' to hunt you down like a wolf for what you did to my boy."
A lump jumped to Ramona's throat. She slipped her little hand into the big one of her father, and with it went all her sympathy and all her love.
"You're 'way off, Wadley. The boy was our friend. Why should we shoot him?" asked the man from the chaparral.
"Because he interfered with you when you robbed my messenger."
The startled eyes of the outlaw jumped to meet those of the cattleman. For a fraction of a second he was caught off his guard. Then the film of wary craftiness covered them again.
"That's plumb foolishness, Clint. The Mexican--what's his name?--killed Ford because he was jealous, an' if it hadn't been for you, he'd 'a' paid for it long ago. But that ain't what I came to talk about. I'm here to tell you that I've got evidence to prove that Ford was a rustler an' a hold-up. If it comes to a showdown, we're goin' to tell what we know. Mebbe you want folks to know what kind of a brother yore girl had. That's up to you."
Wadley exploded in a sudden fury of passion. "I'll make no bargain with the murderer of my boy. Get out of here, you damned yellow wolf. I don't want any truck with you at all till I get a chance to stomp you down like I would a rattler."
The bad-man bared his fangs. For one moment of horror Ramona thought he was going to strike like the reptile to which her father had compared him. He glared at the cattleman, the impulse strong in him to kill and be done with it. But the other side of him--the caution that had made it possible for him to survive so long in a world of violent men--held his hand until the blood-lust passed from his brain.
"You've said a-plenty," he snarled thickly. "Me, I've made my last offer to you. It's war between me 'n' you from now on."
He turned away and went slouching down the path to the road.
The two on the porch watched him out of sight. The girl had slipped inside her father's arm and was sobbing softly on his shoulder.
"There, honeybug, now don't you--don't you," Clint comforted. "He cayn't do us any harm. Ellison's hot on his trail. I'll give him six months, an' then he's through. Don't you fret, sweetheart. Daddy will look out for you all right."